Cacophony
by Mooncombo
Summary: Because she still loved him. Still loves him enough to try and save him, even when he hurts her. And when all is said and done, maybe they can fix the damage. Follows Obsession. TIVA.
1. Chapter 1

I know I should be working on Inevitable, but my muses fled the scene after Obsession. Hopefully, I can lure them back after I get some darker stuff out of my system.

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me…if they did I would not be jerking around my audience with their cracky bi-polar behavior.

I wrote this as it tumbled out of my head and on to my computer. Hopefully, my errors are minimal.

* * *

Damaged. She was damaged.

She knew it. Vance knew it. Gibbs knew it.

And now Tony knew it, too.

The quiet of the apartment made her ears ring and her skin itch and the overwhelming urge to claw off her own flesh seemed to swallow her from the inside out.

She wasn't good and she wasn't kind. And she had done things no human should ever be asked - no ordered - to do until it became her very nature. She was a killer wrapped in the pretty package. Hidden behind the façade of a new life and a chance to be a better person.

A chance.

A chance to be someone - _something _- else.

A snake that has shed its skin.

Squeezing her eyes shut against the harshness of the images that haunt her mind, her breath is quick. Labored. Forced between teeth with a hiss.

And it makes her sick.

It makes her sick because she was never meant to be this way. She was never meant to live this life and she fears she is too damaged to be the person she wished she had been given the chance to become.

So she waits.

She waits because eventually she hopes he will come back.

She's invaded his home - and she's not sure she's currently welcome here - but still she waits. In his living room, on his couch.

God help her if he does not come home. Or worse that he comes home accompanied by a woman.

But she can not think about that right now.

She swallows. Swallows past the lump in her throat that is so large it might choke her, suffocate her. And she can't stop the hurt that rolls off of her body in waves.

She wants to do the unthinkable. She wants to curl into a ball and cry. Not only for him, but for herself and the girl that she never was. She doesn't cry though - she thinks that she may have forgotten how.

Maybe he could have loved her. If she wasn't damaged. Ruined. Long before she found herself lost in an African desert. She was lost long before she came to NCIS. She just hadn't realized it until she found herself tied to a chair, staring at a version of herself disguised as Saleem.

Because no matter what they did to her, no matter how they hurt her body, violated her soul and tortured her mind, she was already ruined. She was no better than the men that inflicted so much pain upon her unwilling flesh.

She had found chilling comfort in knowing her enemy in a way one can only know another: though shared experience. And the knowledge that she would either die from the experience or that she would survive with the ability to put one foot in front of the other until the past remained in the past.

Except that she is wrong. The past didn't always stay in the past. Sometimes it wanted out. Sometimes it bubbled through her veins until she no longer knew who she was and what she wanted. Because what she wanted had never mattered. Never mattered until now.

It never mattered until she realized that she had wanted to be someone else.

And so she waited.

Because the one person who might have been able to love her anyway suddenly didn't.

Because somehow she thought there would always be time to make things right.

Because somehow she wasn't quite ready to give up.

And because she still did love him even if he did not love her.

And so she waited, the cacophony in her head getting louder with each persistent beat of her heart.

Her throat tightened and her gut twisted and she felt upside down and inside out.

Her shame and disappointment swirling around in her stomach.

She was ashamed of herself and disappointed in him and really, she just wanted to undo the damage. For both of them. Because he was damaged, too.

So she waited.

Because in the end, she knew what she saw in him. Just as she knew what he once saw in her.

And maybe she could fix it.

* * *

A/N: I know, I know. Not a nice story. But I couldn't help it. I feel a little out of whack about TIVA lately, especially after Obsession. I'm considering doing a chapter from Tony's POV. Let me know what you think. Hopefully, my muses will come out of hiding so that I can finish Inevitable. Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I have to finish this little piece about Obsession before I can move on. Here is Tony's POV…

Disclaimer: Not mine

* * *

The bourbon makes his tongue thick and his eyes watery. The jar is long empty, his last refill two hours prior.

Gibbs had offered up the couch but Tony declined, opting to keep vigil over the latest project taking shape in the basement.

And so he waited.

In solitude. Gibbs having left him alone with the chatter in his mind and a partial bottle of bourbon.

Not ready to go his home and not sure he is welcome in hers, he waits in the home of Gibbs.

He imagines graceful arms around his neck, delicate fingers gently holding his head against her cheek. His chest hurts and his ears buzz and he wonders what exactly it would take to get her out of his system.

And just as quickly he realizes that he does not actually _want _her out of his system.

He's tired and he's alone and wonders just what he was thinking when he ended up in the wrong bed. And he wonders what she was thinking when she realized what he had done. He didn't have to wonder if he had hurt her, though. Of that, he had no doubt.

And just as easily, she had retaliated. Summed up the whole of his fears, the depth of his inadequacy. A question so simply and casually tossed out, yet cutting with icy precision just the same.

She knew how to hurt him as just easily as he knew how to hurt her.

And so he hurts her some more, because that is what they do. He finds another someone, another possible bed to fill. Only this one doesn't live long enough to even become a one night stand.

He hates himself for being who he is and he hates her for knowing who he is and the endless cycle of running and pushing may just _kill him _because he's tired, so tired, and yeah - she's tired, too.

So he gets too involved with another woman, another Jeanne, another somebody too perfect on the outside. And maybe a little too perfect on the inside, too, because the Jeannes and the Danas of the world never get to see the things he lets _her_ see.

And she sees everything.

And he wonders how he ever walked away from her in the first place, how she could have walked away from him.

A summer, just a summer. A summer spent together that was never supposed to mean more than a fling, a fleeting escape from the harshness that was becoming their shared reality. Except somehow it ended up meaning everything.

Gibbs left, Jeanne happened, and Jenny died.

She was sent home and he was sent afloat.

And it just deteriorated.

And suddenly he wants nothing more in this world than to fix it. Fix them.

He knows that he is a jerk and he knows that once again he's let her down and he wishes he was someone else.

Someone less damaged.

He wants to be close to her. He wants to hold her, soothe her hurt because God knows she's known so little kindness in her young life. And he hates himself even more.

Because she still loved him. Still loves him enough to try and save him, even when he hurts her.

He feels overheated and twitchy and suddenly he wants to be anywhere but in the stifling darkness of the basement.

His shame and disappointment swirling around in his stomach.

He was ashamed of himself and disappointed in her and really, he just wanted to undo the damage. For both of them. Because she was damaged, too.

So he heads home.

Because in the end, he knew what he saw in her. Just as he knew what she once saw in him.

And maybe he could fix it.

* * *

A/N: Yup, Angst - o - rama. My muses are feeling a little moody right now. I'm considering a third chapter, taking place when Tony gets home and finds Ziva in his apartment but this may be a good place to stop. Feel free to let me know if you think I should continue…

Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

What's a girl to do when she is stuck at home on a Saturday night with the PLAGUE? Why, she writes fan fiction, of course. This is the last chapter of my little angst fest. Maybe I can go back and concentrate on finishing Inevitable now. Thanks for reading!

Disclaimer: not mine

* * *

She could kill him any number of ways. She has threatened him often enough. Which is why he is not entirely surprised to find himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

Her gun.

In his own apartment.

Blinking at him sleepily from the couch, she does not immediately lower her weapon.

She waits a moment, her point well and truly made, before her arm drops to place the gun on the coffee table.

_Why are you here?_

_I am not sure._

But she is sure and she does know and like him - the running just may kill her. So they continue this silent stand off, but he succumbs first - he always does - and sighs. Tossing his keys on the table he drops down heavily to sit beside her.

Her legs are still curled beneath her and her composure is securely in place presenting a picture of perfect calm. But he knows better. He knows her and therefore is not fooled by the mask.

Her chin is set and her jaw is stiff and he knows it kills her a little that she must ask the question.

_Why, Tony?_

_I didn't mean to hurt you._

_That is not what I asked. _

_I know._

And still they sit. He considers all the possible ways this little scene could play out. Not the least of which ending with him seducing her - or more likely, her seducing him - because that is what they do. What they have done. What they _will _do if one of them does not break the cycle.

Because this time mere seduction will not fit the bill nor cure the ailment. And they both know it.

The room is uncomfortable and thick and oppressive. And it hurts.

His hand creeps toward hers as if the appendage has a will of its own. He hooks his index finger through hers and squeezes.

He hears her breath catch and he dares to look at her. She stares straight ahead but her breath quickens and her finger squeezes back.

_It was a distraction. I needed a distraction._

_A distraction from me?_

And of course the answer is yes because it was Ziva that had asked for more time. Asked him for space. Had left him dangling and spinning and alone.

_I just needed some time, Tony._

_I know that now. I just didn't know it before._

She reaches for him like the saint that she is not and pulls him into her embrace. He shudders and for a horrifying moment he thinks he might cry.

He might cry for things lost and things that never were but should have been.

Her arms anchor him to the present and there are so, so many things that he could say - should say.

Would say.

If he knew the right words. But he doesn't.

So he sinks into her embrace and allows her warmth, her strength, her _self_ to permeate the cold in his bones. And her arms feel so very strong in sharp contrast to the actual size of her body. In sharp contrast to the softness that she has displayed as of late. It occurs to him for the first time that this softness is new.

Ziva David had never been soft before. But that is not true, either. It's been happening for some time and he just didn't bother to notice. He wonders _why he didn't notice_.

She wonders just when he had become so hard, so cynical. And she knows that at least a little bit of that change is because of her.

Because he had loved her once, had tried to protect her but in the end he couldn't save her.

Until he actually did save her. Rescued her. Brought her back to American soil.

And he knows that if he ever has to mourn her death again he just may not survive it a second time.

_You can't run from the memories forever, Ziva._

_I did not mean to shut you out._

It had been too much too fast and she just couldn't process - she was a soldier, after all - and so she pushed. Pushed him away, pushed them away, pushed it all out of her mind until everything was stored and filed into neat little compartments left for examination on another day. Another day when maybe it wouldn't all be so horribly, brutally painful. Another day when Saleem's face was not the first thing she saw when she closed her eyes at night.

_I want things to be different for us._

_I want that, too._

He pulls her to sit in his lap and wraps his arms around her, taking his turn in the cycle of mutual comfort.

She rests her face against his throat, feeling his pulse beneath her flesh, and breathes in his scent.

_So what do we do now._

_We try harder. We make it work._

He kisses her head and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. They sit that way in comfortable silence until eventually, she dozes against him and he wraps his arms around her even tighter.

Morning finds them tangled together on the couch and for the first time in a long time they both feel hopeful.

Hopeful that maybe they really could fix it.

* * *

As always, thanks for reading! Feel free to leave me some love. ;)


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